


Save the Last Dance

by coppercowries



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: AU after Reunification, Anal Sex, Flashbacks, Future Fic, Insecure Edward Nygma, Jealous Edward Nygma, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Martin is mentioned, Minor Oswald Cobblepot/Victor Zsasz, Murder husband still in love, Not Ed or Oswald tho, Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Sex Toys, Unrequited Love, no real plot, olga is mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 08:43:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22368580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coppercowries/pseuds/coppercowries
Summary: Decades have passed, and Ed is still just as in love with Oswald as he was twenty years ago. But as long-time allies leave or pass away and Oswald finds himself on the eve of retiring from his criminal empire, Ed can't help but wonder if Oswald still needs and desires him.
Relationships: Oswald Cobblepot/Edward Nygma
Comments: 21
Kudos: 129





	Save the Last Dance

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Last Dance](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19853545) by [coppercowries](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coppercowries/pseuds/coppercowries). 

> I got most of this story written about nine months ago, but then it got sidelined for my seasonal job. I've been working on it over the past two months, but I have a habit of nitpicking my work forever and seeing everything that's wrong with it until I just force myself to post it, and that time has come. It's mostly smut, hopefully enjoyable smut haha, but do please head the warnings if you're sensitive to graphic sex or canon character death.

Save the Last Dance  
By coppercowries  
-

Ed tapped his security code into the keypad on the door of his private office and listened for the electronic lock to slide into place. Gathering his outerwear from the lobby coat rack, he informed Joanna, his irritatingly young secretary, that he'd be taking the rest of the day off. She waved him away, barely glancing up from her romance novel as he shrugged on his overcoat and hat and departed the office with a resigned sigh. Working as a private investigator was hardly a lucrative enterprise. But the cases he accepted offered him a form of mental therapy, a new purpose that he'd greatly needed after the explosion three years ago that had largely ended his criminal career.

Cured, the doctor said. Cured of the worst of his obsessive impulses.

And Ed supposed he couldn't argue with that assessment. He was hardly a lawful citizen, but nowadays he spent more time working _for_ the GCPD than he did working against them. So long as their investigations steered clear of his beloved Oswald. 

_Oswald..._

He couldn't stop the sour, beleaguered sigh heaving out from deep in his chest.

_Irritating, selfish, absent Oswald._

Ed considered heading to the Iceberg Lounge, thoughts of Oswald heavy now on his mind. The Lounge would be closed to the public at such an early hour, but today was a Tuesday and that meant delivery day for the club's new overhead lighting. The Lounge was undergoing its first major renovation since opening nearly two decades earlier, and Oswald was obsessively overseeing every aspect of its redesign. He'd be busy. Too busy for Ed, no doubt.

Well, Ed might be desperate for affection these days, but not desperate enough to be patted on the head like a needy child and sent away.

Instead of stopping by the Iceberg, Ed spent most of the day entertaining himself in the city. After checking in on a few of Oswald's peripheral properties, Ed worked his way to the Gotham Museum of Art and History. He was pleased to slip inside the museum without incident, blending in just enough with the other visitors to evade being stopped at the door, curious to view the new showcase of Gotham's prominent street art.

But Ed wasn't lucky enough to go unnoticed for long. Ten minutes into his visit and museum security were nearly pinballing themselves against him, eyeing him nervously as he lingered too long on a particularly evocative piece of art. A spray-painted water tank salvaged from the old Gotham iron-works plant. "Assault and BATtery," was the title, and the nine foot fiberglass slab had obviously been painted by a member of the anti-Batman faction of the city, as it depicted him in a nightmarish caricature of himself with the GCPD bowing down at his feet.

Ed considered how the giant work of art would look displayed in the sitting room of Martin's big penthouse apartment in the city. That notion turned into a half-hour mental exercise of how he might potentially steal it, until museum security was visibly sweating and on the verge of calling in the Gotham Gestapo. Ed had been banned from visiting the museum repeatedly, but security never seemed to have the guts to actually toss him out, for fear of both the Riddler's ire and that of his hot-blooded husband. And considering that Ed had neither robbed nor otherwise terrorized the museum for nearly four years, he felt entitled to the occasional public visit.

He held up his hands in a show of innocence to the guards, nearly earning himself a tasing in the process, and laughed a bit as he drifted through the rest of the exhibit. Nothing else especially caught his eye until he reached the final display, tucked back almost deliberately from the rest.

A window, four feet by six feet, smaller than most of the other exhibits but intensely, immediately visceral for a man of Edward's history. Black and white, skirting the line between the abstract and the real, unsettling at best to look at - a portrait of disasociative identity disorder. Two faces melted almost grotesquely together, there was nothing pleasing about the piece, but for Edward Nygma it was like looking at a snapshot of his often tortured past.

Such a curious thing, his damnable brain, split apart for so long like a rotten fruit. Two halves, cohorts and antagonists at turns, at times clawing desperately for independence, only to ultimately realize that they both sought out the same fulfillment, the same goals, the same validation, and that they could be loved unconditionally throughout it all. Edward Nygma could no more pinpoint the moment of his mental unification than someone else could recall an exact moment of falling asleep. In retrospect, he felt most akin to two colors bleeding gradually into each other, over a course of years, until a single solid color remained, chemically distinct and irreversible.

Ed considered the tortured painting, the ugly perfection of it. Perhaps Oswald would appreciate this piece of art even more. Oswald, who had at first offered love to one man, and then accepted the love of two men, and then struggled to understand that he wasn't _losing_ one of those men so dear to him. Oswald, who had gone through a period of confusion and grief, only to once again accept Ed for who and what he was.

Ed's vision blurred for a moment at the memories, and he knew in an instant that his detente with this unfortunate museum was about to end. At six fifteen AM on Thursday, if the plan coalescing in his mind was any indication. He tipped his hat to the pair of police officers now flanking him in place of the regular museum security and bid them adieu. They followed him all the way out of the building - "You know you're not supposed to be here, Nygma." - but his brain was riding too high on a rush of adrenaline to pay them any attention. He hadn't felt an itch to steal this intense in years, and his skin was tingling with a current of excitement as he stepped out into the street, grinning wildly at the ominous and well-timed rumbling of thunder overhead.

He hailed a taxi, but before heading home he stopped by the city's nicest assisted living facility. Multiple bouts of cancer had deteriorated Olga's health until two years ago she had been forced to give up caring for the manor and Oswald had moved her into an upscale care facility. For a man who had lived a life well known for being cold and selfish and petty, Oswald's sentimentality remained as strong as ever for those lucky few he allowed into his inner circle, those lucky few he valued and genuinely cared about.

Olga still pretended to dislike Ed, even though Ed had long ago proven to her that he _did_ love Oswald, had _always_ loved the man, regardless of how long it had taken him to realize or accept that love. Ed couldn't take back all the pain he had caused, but he had spent the past twenty years devotedly attempting to atone for his previous doubts and sins.

He signed the paperwork for the next six months of her care, ordered an arrangement of flowers be sent to her room, and was back in the taxi just as the sky opened up above him. Although he usually preferred to drive, Ed was happy to be a passenger as the taxi weaved aggressively across the traffic-riddled northern bridge and to Van Dahl manor, the only place Ed had truly ever called home. Oswald had renovated the big house shortly after the reunification of the city with the mainland, done his best to maintain the character of the house but make it more conducive to their changing needs, and its lavish walls had provided them an on-and-off sanctuary for the past two decades. True, a sleek, modern apartment was available to them uptown, safe-houses in every corner of the city, as well as the private room Oswald kept for himself at his beloved Iceberg Lounge. But those places had never quite felt as much like home to Ed.

He paid off the driver and hurried to the front door, rushing inside as the rain crashing against his back threatened to morph into hail. He slammed the door and hastily shrugged off his dark green, diamond-patterned jacquard overcoat, shaking off the sheen of water that had settled across his shoulders. He hung up the coat to dry on the entryway coat rack, accompanied a moment later by his dampened bowler hat. He used his pocket square to wipe the mist from his glasses.

As he idled by the front door, considering his options, his mood deflated just as quickly as it had brightened. The house was quiet. Probably empty.

_Oswald._

He sighed again, for what seemed like the hundredth time that day, debating if he should start a proper dinner or if he would rather head upstairs for a hot bath. Oswald had been working late for weeks. Some nights he retired to his rooms above the club instead of making the long ride back to the manor, and Ed found it difficult to sleep alone on those nights. He had tried staying with Oswald at the Lounge a few times, but Oswald had been distant recently, absorbed by concerns that he seemed unable or unwilling to impart upon Ed.

Was there any point in starting a nice dinner if Ed was the only one who would be home to eat it?

Just as he started upstairs, a familiar voice called out from the back of the house and halted his feet.

"Eddie, is that you?"

Ed stilled, hand on the banister, a fluttering in his belly.

"Oswald?"

"I'm in the den," came the reply, welcoming but obviously tired.

Ed hurried through the house, his steps buoyed by the thought that Oswald was already home and not likely to leave out again tonight. He slipped into the den to find Oswald sitting on the floor a few feet in front of the fire, his bad leg stretched out and his good leg bent. His ankle must have been hurting him more than usual because his leg brace lay discarded to the side and an electric heating pad wrapped his foot and ankle.

Seeing Oswald stretched across the floor was jarring. He never sat on the floor because his stout physique and his weakened leg made climbing back up to his feet a chore. But for whatever reason, there he was, on the floor and dressed down in just a dark gray t-shirt, black slacks, and purple slippers. He looked little like the Al Capone-esque kingpin that so much of the city had come to fear, to respect, or to simply speculate about at cocktail parties and beer halls alongside the city's other great urban legend, the Batman. Oswald still looked beautiful, but without the elaborate trappings of his suits and his jewelry and his high-backed thrones, he looked much more like a man that might need his husband's comfort tonight.

Oswald had brought home some of the accounting books from the Lounge, and what looked like a thick stack of legal documents, but all of it had been pushed away. He looked up at Ed's entrance. The age lines around his eyes deepened as he offered an apologetic grimace. 

"I heard you slam the door," he explained. "I came home early because I thought we might go out for dinner, have a proper night on the town, but..." He gestured to his leg. "Honestly, I'm just too tired."

Ed crossed over to Oswald, shedding his own coat and tie on the way and tossing the clothing over to the couch. He knelt down beside his husband's extended leg on the floor.

"I'd rather have a night in anyway," Ed assured, and that was the truth. More than anything else, he was craving uninterrupted, quiet time with this man. He unwrapped the heating pad from Oswald's ankle and set it to the side. He could see a heavy amount of swelling, and Oswald grimaced as Ed applied a probing touch.

"I'm calling Doctor Dekker in the morning," declared Ed. "I understand your reservations, but it's ridiculous to go on suffering like this instead of just having the surgery. I promise you I'll be there the whole time."

Oswald leaned back on the palms of his hands and released a properly dramatic huff as Ed rubbed the circulation back into his ankle.

"This couldn't have happened at a worse time."

Ed kept his expression neutral, but a question slipped into his voice as he said, "I thought you were ready for this. I thought the paperwork was done."

"I am. It is," Oswald grunted back, a touch defensive in tone. "I'm just...restless, I suppose."

Ed worked at Oswald's ankle another few moments before deciding he had done all he could under the circumstances. He crawled across the floor to curl up against Oswald's back, flanking him with his arms and legs. With a little encouragement, Oswald leaned back against Ed's chest. He felt soft but solid against Ed's body and within his arms, and his hair smelled like sweet cigar smoke and the remnants of cologne. 

"You're hardly being put out to pasture, Oswald. You still have the Lounge, and god knows we have enough money." He pressed a kiss to the soft skin behind Oswald's ear. "You'll still be the king of Gotham's nightlife."

"I know, I know," grumped Oswald. "And I know Martin is ready. I know he's been ready for years."

Martin _was_ definitely ready to take over as head of the Cobblepot crime family. He'd been poised for a decade to take over the reigns of control from his benefactor - his father. Oswald had always made it known to Martin that he was under no obligation to carry on their criminal empire. Oswald controlled enough legitimate property and business that Martin and his children - Ed and Oswald's _grandchildren_ \- could leave behind a life of crime any time they liked.

But the life of a kingpin, of being a _somebody_, a somebody who was not just respected but also feared, was a part of Martin's DNA as much as it was Oswald's. Martin thrived under pressure, and he combined the flash and cleverness of Ed with the brutality and cunning of Oswald. Yes, Martin could also be vengeful and petty like his father, but unlike Oswald, Martin was even tempered and difficult to read. He handled most of Oswald's criminal negotiations already.

"If you know, then what's really bothering you?"

Oswald was silent for a moment. And then:

"I had someone I could trust at my side, watching out for me."

Oh.

A coldness stuttered through Ed's chest. This wasn't about Martin. This wasn't about Oswald retiring and handing over the reigns of his empire to his son.

This was about Victor Zsasz.

Shortly after reunification, Victor had fallen afoul of an assassin known as Cheshire, one of many new players seeking opportunities in the vulnerable city. He had underestimated her and suffered for it, falling prey to her poisons - and off a fourth story balcony. His back and hips had shattered on impact, and soon he'd been transferred to a long term medical facility, languishing under remedial care, in pain and confused and forgotten by everyone.

Everyone except Oswald.

After first, Oswald had reveled in the news that his former vassal was broken and suffering...but Oswald was nothing if not sentimental. Eventually, he had swept Victor out of that dismal place and secured for the man the most radical of treatments, whether legal or not, that money could buy. Within a year, Victor was on his feet and back at the shooting range, and another six months saw him permanently attached to Oswald's side as his head of security. He had loved Oswald in his own sedate way ever since, and everyone but Oswald seemed to know.

Ed suspected that Victor Zsasz had always been attracted to the deadly little man. A crackling of something playful and irreverent and uncomplicated existed always between them, rippling across their power dynamic. Sure, Victor had once betrayed him. But Oswald had eaten a bowl of betrayal for breakfast every morning for thirty years, served to him by Gordon, or Ed, or Victor, or a hundred fucking others, until the bitter taste was nothing now to wash down.

Of course, the Riddler was a possessive man. And unrequited or not, the love of Victor Zsasz towards Oswald Cobblepot had become an increasingly intolerable problem. 

Over the years, Ed had eliminated a rolodex full of potential rivals. Oswald was a powerful man. He attracted the ambitious and the greedy. He attracted the sycophantic personalities who lusted after power and danger. He attracted the deadly and the beautiful....and the Riddler never let those people go unpunished. Oswald was his, and he made certain that the whole of Gotham knew it.

Only one man had consistently evaded the Riddler's jealous ire, and that was Victor Zsasz.

Ed had wanted to kill that man plenty of times over the past two decades. But Victor was Oswald's right hand man, a man as omnipresent in Oswald's life as Ed himself. A man who was often at Oswald's side during his intermittent stays in Blackgate, while Ed languished alone in Arkham, communicating with Oswald via letters and go-betweens. Victor was a man - the only man - with the kind of emotional strings in place necessary to ever tempt Oswald away from Ed's arms.

And yet Oswald had never believed that Victor loved him.

Until.

Ed could remember the moment of Victor's death like an old movie reel flickering in a loop against the back of his skull...

_Oswald looked especially lovely, backlit by the blue and purple lights of the bar as he adjusted his platinum and amethyst monocle and scoured the company books. His hair was loosely swept to the side, falling slightly across his forehead, his silken black tophat set aside for the evening. He was dressed impeccably as always, but a tiny spatter of blood remained on the cuff of his lavender undershirt, unnoticed, from a fit of rage much earlier in the day. And even though the target of Oswald's displeasure was long gone, no doubt already fertilizing one of Ivy's flowerbeds, and the scene had been cleaned into sparkling perfection, the sight of that blood on Oswald's cuff was just as exciting to Ed as watching the deed itself. He revisited the moment in his mind, watching his mercurial bird smash in a man's head with a heavy whiskey decanter, out of control and stunning. Ed shivered at the predictable but welcome swelling in his groin, felt his pants tighten in response to the memory of the delicious outburst. He reached out a hand, fingertips slipping over Oswald's ink-stained knuckles._

_Mismatched eyes flicked up in question, widening slightly as Ed leaned over the bar and down, his breath coming quickly now, desire uncoiling like a snake in his stomach--_

_The service door to the kitchen banged open and both men snapped to the sound._

_Victor Zsasz stumbled through, sweat glistening like diamonds on his sleek pale head. The desert eagle in his hand slipped from his hold and hit the floor with a dull clunk. He paused in the entryway for one long moment, to pull himself almost upright, and that was when Ed noticed the thick ooze of blood off the fingertips of the man's left hand, forming a bright red puddle on the carrara marble floor._

_A strangled sort of cry escaped Oswald's throat, and suddenly he was unfrozen and in motion, yelling for one of his goons to get help as he stumble-ran his way across the dance floor. Victor lurched into motion as well, managing another few steps before he collapsed to the cold floor, Oswald clawing at his expensive ostrich skin vest, tearing it open. A dark stain had already blossomed across the front of Victor's shirt, and Ed wondered, with a clinical detachment, how many minutes the man had left to live._

_Victor was silent as Oswald shifted and pulled at him, positioning his head in Oswald's lap. Bright red blood gurgled out of Victor's mouth and dripped down his neck, stark against the white of his skin, and there was something in the contrast of colors that Ed almost found beautiful. But then Victor's long fingers curled around the back of Oswald's neck and urged him down, until Oswald's stricken face was just an inch from his own. A smile curled that blood covered mouth, and then Victor Zsasz kissed the King of Gotham._

_The moment seared itself like a fireplace poker across Ed's brain. A hot spear of jealousy through his stomach, a lesser stab of pity, of something almost like sympathy that he had been lucky enough to have the kind of intimacy with Oswald that Victor never would. Oswald pulled back as Victor went limp in his arms, Victor's red blood smeared across his lips and chin and the shine of tears down his face._

_And then Oswald eased the man's lifeless body aside and he struggled to his feet, and a change crossed his aging face like the black shadow of death. Sorrow gave way to an all-encompassing rage. A rage so full of hatred that it became its own force of nature..._

And to Ed, Oswald had never looked more beautiful than in that moment.

The Batman was known to refrain from killing - at least intentionally - and whatever had transpired that night to result in the death of Victor Zsasz, Ed would never know. But Gotham City had fallen to its knees in terror as the Penguin ripped vengeance from the deepest bones of the city in his quest to find and end the Batman, once and for all. The Riddler had reveled in his husband's mayhem, in a week of murder and terror unlike anything that Gotham had seen since the days of Jeremiah Valeska.

In the end, the Batman had come to Oswald quietly in the still of the night, once the King of Gotham had exhausted himself and lay alone and vulnerable in his rooms at the Lounge. Edward wondered, afterward, if the Batman had let Oswald go out of guilt. But that final confrontation was one of the things that Oswald simply refused to speak about.

The death of Victor Zsasz seemed to mark the end of an era for Gotham City. Gordon had retired a decade ago. Most of the original rogues gallery were broken husks at Arkham, or dead. Ed had entered a soft retirement after his head injury, and now Oswald, who had lived longer and better than he had ever expected or indeed deserved, was ready to hand over his crown to their son. 

Ed rested his head against the curve of Oswald's neck.

"Oswald, Martin has loyal employees too. Just because they're not in _love_ with him..." He couldn't help the bitterness that seeped into his voice. Victor was dead, but the impact of that death on Ed's husband was undermining his self-esteem. He had never been good at sharing, and a moment of Oswald's attention on someone else was a moment that his attention wasn't on Ed.

"Ed. Please." Oswald was clearly disengaging from the conversation now. He was long accustomed to Ed's jealousy. For better or worse, an obsessive Edward Nygma was all Oswald had ever known - but Ed could hear the fatigue in his voice. Still, Ed just couldn't stop himself.

"...did you love him?"

Oswald took a long breath. Resigning himself. He was quiet for a moment. Only a moment, but long enough that Ed felt his belly sicken.

"No," came the answer, and the firmness of that single word underscored that Oswald hadn't delayed in replying out of hesitation, but rather an effort at truthfulness. "Not the way I love you."

He twisted slightly in Ed's hold, angling his face upwards. Ed could see a thoughtful pinch in his expression now.

"I appreciated Victor," Oswald concluded aloud. "And...it hurt, I guess, to know that he felt the way he did about me, and I never realized."

Ed draped his arms over Oswald's shoulders, one hand resting on the firm curve of his stomach, the other toying with the v-neck collar of his t-shirt. Given how long Oswald had pined for _Ed_, how lonely those years must have been, Ed supposed he could understand why Oswald wouldn't want that for anyone else.

"Would it have changed anything?" he wondered.

"No, I suppose not," replied Oswald, one hand sliding up to finger absently over the knuckles of the hand splayed across his chest. "I don't think he actually _wanted_ me to love him back. I guess that sounds stupid. But, looking back, I think he was content to simply...be at my side."

"I know," agreed Ed simply. "That's why I never killed him."

"Ed!" Oswald twisted up further, shooting Ed a scalded look. Ed shrugged.

"I'm the Riddler. What's mine is mine." He trailed his hand from Oswald's chest to the man's narrow chin, tilting it up and back. "And I've been sorely missing what's mine."

Oswald's charcoal-darkened eyelids fluttered closed, and his lips parted invitingly as Ed moved to align their mouths for a deeply needed kiss. Oswald hummed in response, a pleased little sound, at the pressure of Ed's skin against his own, and Ed's heart lifted into his throat. So long had passed since Ed had really touched this man, so long he could not even recall the moment, and he sank against the open kiss now offered to him. _God_, he had missed touching this man, being close to him. He craved reclaiming the distance, real or imagined, that had grown between them in the wake of Zsasz's death.

Oswald hummed again as he settled solidly against Ed's chest, head cradled against Ed's arm as they pressed more aggressively into the kiss. Pressure, taste, wetness and heat. Ed paused just long enough to lift off his glasses and toss them over to the stack of paperwork by the fire before ducking back to take another long kiss. He ground himself greedily against Oswald's mouth with little thought of pacing himself, just in touching and tasting and _taking_. The feel of Oswald's tongue thickly filling his mouth, pushing up with an equal hunger, had Ed's hands fisting into Oswald's t-shirt and growling.

He wanted more, but their positioning - back to front - made it difficult for Ed to satisfy the full-bodied hunger overtaking his senses. He broke the kiss enough to rumble out the word, "Bedroom," and shifted to his knees, grabbing at Oswald's arms to help him to his feet. He tried to be sensitive to Oswald's tired ankle, but he was grateful that during the renovation of the house Oswald had converted part of the downstairs into a bedroom - complete with bourbon that Oswald wasn't supposed to be drinking, condoms they no longer used, and toys that they certainly did - for the nights his leg was just too wrecked to make it upstairs.

Ed was tugging at Oswald's shirt before they'd even reached the bed, earning a chuckle as Oswald raised his arms and allowed the t-shirt to be pulled over his head. He stepped out of his slippers and slid down his pants and silken underwear, and Ed watched like a man starving while shucking off his own clothing. Ed _adored_ the stout body flaunted before him, the strong thighs and rounded ass, the subtle but firm slope of stomach that added so much to Oswald's aging toughness and so heavily reminded Ed of silver-screen gangsters like Edward G. Robinson.

He was urging Oswald onto the high mattress before the last piece of clothing had even hit the floor. Oswald laughed again, breathy and sensual, and shifted to the head of the bed, his legs falling open in invitation as he settled against the headboard, his cock curving half-hard against his inner thigh. His long eyelashes fluttered as he looked up, clearly all too aware of his own lewd display as he caught and held Ed's hungry gaze. Ed climbed across the pillowy mattress in an instant, hands going immediately to those shapely legs and shoving them further apart at the knees, spreading Oswald wide open for Ed's eyes to devour.

_Oswald still loves me._

Oswald was still his. Oswald was here, in bed, one hand rubbing up and down his own thigh in invitation, naked and ready for whatever Ed wanted. Ed could feel his own cock pulsing at just the sight of the man, feel the edges of blackness around his vision. He struggled to breathe through a staggering, almost debilitating shock of arousal. 

_Mine mine mine..._

His eyes honed in on the single movement occurring between them, Oswald's hand running teasingly up and down his own inner thigh, over and over, never quite touching the big cock curving pink and proud before skirting back away. Oh, he looked positively sinful, leaned against the headboard, proudly on display, so different than the shy, awkward mess of a lover that Ed had bedded twenty years ago.

"Touch yourself," Ed commanded, hunched over between his lover's shapely legs, hair falling down across his eyes, watching greedily. He had always loved the sight of Oswald performing for him, unashamed and wicked, growing in self-confidence and sexuality as the long years stitched them closer and closer together.

A question flicked across Oswald's face, curious at the shift in direction. 

"_Touch yourself_," Ed repeated, harsher, looking up through the brown strands in his eyes. His own hands curled in the purple velvet blanket to keep them from reaching out again.

Oswald's pretty eyes narrowed, but he moved to obey, the hand that was on his thigh sliding inward slowly, deliberately, across a patch of neatly trimmed hair to his pinkened cock. He touched himself lightly at first, fingertips brushing just the tip of his penis, across the sensitive slit, teasing, watching for Ed's reaction through narrowed eyes. Ed growled in approval, licking his lips thoughtlessly as Oswald's hand slipped down the shaft to grip himself in a loose fist. Oswald pumped himself a few times and his cock hardened more in response, swelling fuller, warming to the idea of being on display. He reached over to the nightstand with his free hand and snagged the bottle of warming lubricant from the bedside table, took a moment to drizzle a large amount of it over his hands and his cock before setting right back to work.

Those bright eyes fluttered, head lolling back against the padded headboard. A hitch in his breath, a twitching smile. Pleasure flickered across his expression. Those mismatched blue eyes hazed over under half-closed lids and long eyelashes.

Ed groaned, rough and entranced, at the wanton sight.

And then Oswald smirked, measured and calm as he rubbed up and down his pretty swollen cock. He was still a man in control, that little smirk settling into a self-satisfied grin, and his eyes rolled closed and he allowed himself a soft groan. Something triggered like a light switch in Ed's brain at the sight, at that carefully crafted lack of concern.

Perhaps Oswald hadn't needed Ed's touch for a _reason_.

Ed waited, watching, holding his breath, for Oswald to whisper his name, or to open his eyes and plead with a look - any vulnerability to signal that he needed his husband's touch. A tremor in Oswald's thighs as those pretty fingers worked around the flared tip of his swollen dick was more than Ed could handle.

"Is this why you haven't touched me in weeks?" he rasped out. "Were you too busy touching _yourself_?"

Oswald's eyes rolled open, hazy and coy, only half-focused on Ed, a deliberate twitch at the corner of his lips. He seemed to have nothing to say.

"Did you even think of me," demanded Ed hoarsely, "there in your room at the Lounge? Did you say my name as you did this?" He leaned in close, until he could feel Oswald's quickening breaths, hard black stare piercing lazy mismatched blue. "Say my name, Oswald."

Those little pink lips twitched again, facetious and infuriating.

"Always with the name," teased Oswald, breathy and hitched, and then deliciously devious. "Maybe I wasn't thinking about _you_ at all. _Riddler._"

"_Liar_!" shouted Ed, one hand seizing Oswald's wrist and snatching it away from its task. His other hand grabbed a fistful of Oswald's salt-and-pepper hair, jerking back his head. "You lying little--"

He nearly lost balance at the cold splash of bourbon on his face. His thoughts short-circuited, blanking out a few seconds before resetting as the shock of the impact waned. He could taste the spilled booze on his lips, feel it trailing down to his chin, dripping off. He wiped a hand down his face, aware of a second taste now. The metallic tang of blood filled Ed's mouth where he'd bitten his tongue, the color red seeping between his white teeth as a grin curled slowly up the sides of his mouth.

Bourbon and blood.

_You don't fuck with a king._

When the Riddler opened his eyes and turned back to the man who had so cavalierly thrown booze in his face, Oswald was smugly regarding him, unconcerned, a bitchy little smirk on his own lips, one hand still holding the empty old-fashioned glass. Any other man would have recoiled in fear at the manic intensity in the Riddler's black eyes, but not Oswald Cobblepot. There was no form of Edward Nygma's madness that he had not experienced and conquered, one way or another. 

"You're still the one," grinned Ed, all teeth and dark, dark hunger. "Twenty-three years and you're still the only one."

Oswald's smirk softened with the truth of that statement. He set aside the empty glass and his hand searched out the sharp curve Ed's cheek, and Ed leaned into the touch, a wild animal repeatedly broken and tamed by that hand.

"God, I love you," whispered Oswald, as though to himself. "You're impossible and maddening, but by God I could never love another."

"Ozzie..."

Ed surged up against him, taking Oswald's face in both hands and kissing him hard. Oswald rumbled against his mouth, one hand tangling in Ed's hair and the other digging and pushing at the nape of Ed's neck, urging Ed to deepen the kiss. He answered in kind, pressing, pushing, shoving, a harsh, graceless crushing of one wide-open mouth against another, decadent and starving. Ed surrendered to the animalistic grinding of flesh and tongue and spit, its own form of fucking, aggressive, messy and careless. A lightheaded high -- he drew back enough for breath, saliva beading between their lips before fusing back together. 

God it was too good, after weeks of separation, it was too good and still not enough. Another gasp for air.

"Idiot... 'm crazy about you," Oswald confessed against Ed's mouth, and Ed could've laughed at how literally true that sentiment was in regards to himself.

_Crazy about you._

Common people said it all the time to each other, but how many of them had ever truly felt that all-consuming passion and obsession and loss of control. A touch, a caress, a gentle word from the King of Gotham and Ed's existence narrowed every time to that single indestructible strand of spider silk spun between them. Even now, he would steal, he would murder, he would subsist at the basest level of humanity for this man.

He trailed a hand to Oswald's chin and tipped it up, baring the man's neck, pale and soft.

"You smell good," Ed mumbled, tucking his nose behind Oswald's ear, where the man always dabbed an extra bit of cologne throughout the day, and inhaled the pleasing woodsy scent. He hummed in appreciation and dragged the flat of his tongue against the back of the ear, feeling a shiver that he chased with his teeth. Oswald keened a little louder as Ed nipped at the shell of his ear gently at first, then a little harder.

"How do you want it?" he asked, following his question with a hot swipe of his tongue. Oswald trembled as Ed's mouth slid open and latched onto the thin skin over his pulse, and Ed worked the delicate skin into a cherry redness, savoring all the guttural little noises his efforts earned. Oswald was squirming now, but not enough to pull away, and delicious possibilities of what might happen next flicked across Ed's mind in the lewdest possible slideshow.

_Oswald's thick ass in the air, wet with lube and twitching in anticipation, begging to be stuffed, pleading for Ed's forgiveness for ever sparing Victor Zsasz a second thought._

_Or Oswald leaning back on his elbows and leering greedily up as Ed straddles his hips and fucks himself like a superstar on Oswald's leaking cock, giving a show for his husband that no other man ever could._

_Or maybe laying on their sides, slowly sucking off each other, fingers searching and stretching and giving mutual pleasure, wedding rings covered in lube and come._

Oswald's blunt fingernails scratched through the shorter hair at the base of Ed's skull.

"I just want to feel you," he answered. "I don't want to think anymore tonight. I don't want to be _able_ to think." His hand drifted upward and curled into Ed's messy hair, twisting just enough to send another tingle up Ed's spine. "Can you do that for me, Eddie?"

OH. Oh, _yes_. Ed could definitely do that, his hands itched in excitement. The tremor in Oswald's voice, the aching for escape - Oswald _needed_ him, needed the kind of emotional release that only a good hard fuck from Ed could give him.

Ed pressed forward into another kiss, savoring the little cry he earned from biting and tugging on Oswald's tender lips. His hands kneaded the sensitive flesh on the inside of Oswald's thighs, trailing up and down, just to tease until Ed had finally had his fill of kissing for the moment. With a final soft brush of lips, he pulled away and lowered his whole body down, stretching out onto his side between Oswald's knees. He rested his forhead against the meat of Oswald's inner thigh and hummed as he felt Oswald's fingers in his hair, encouraging.

Oswald smelled clean and masculine, lingering hints of the body powder he applied every morning after grooming. He tasted comforting and familiar, the tang of pre-cum sharp on Ed's tongue as he spread his lips around the head of his husband's cock and slowly worked down the shaft. For a man of such small stature, Oswald had a big cock...but Ed had an even bigger mouth, and he could take it all down without too much straining. His effort earned him a groan and fingers working through his hair, petting and urging. Ed backed off enough to catch a breath, one hand gripping at the base as he started working the heavy cock with purpose, in and out of his mouth. He knew what Oswald liked too well, it almost wasn't fair how easily he was bringing the man to climax. Another suckle around the tip, then down the shaft, lips meeting hand, and Oswald was panting and tugging at Ed's hair.

"Eddie, wait-- Ed, I--"

A hint of confusion in his voice. Ed pulled off enough to look up.

"Take the edge off," he explained, voice rough, before sinking his mouth around that desperate cock again and feeling it pulse in response. He sucked down hard, a singular goal in mind. Oswald bowed up as he came, hips jerking slightly, and the hand clenching in Ed's hair unexpectedly made Ed come a little too, easing the ache in his own cock a bit.

_Now_ he could really get to work.

"On your stomach," he ordered, shifting back just enough to give Oswald room to obey. Oswald was slow to respond, still high on his orgasm, a question in his throat but no actual protest as Ed urged him roughly to roll over. Ed shoved a few pillows under Oswald's hips as he complied, barely waiting until the little man had settled before grabbing that round ass in both hands.

_Oh dear._

He squeezed the firm flesh in his palms, parting and revealing the little hole that he had every intention of absolutely wrecking. A brush of his thumb and Oswald grunted, hips twitching in reflex.

Ed smiled and ducked his head, dragging the long flat of his tongue across the sensitive entrance. Oswald groaned at the attention, hands moving to clutch at the bed frame, and Ed did it again before using just the tip of his tongue to circle and lick the puffed little ring. He worked around the spot a few moments, savoring the keening noise that swelled through Oswald's throat, heightening the longer Ed worked, the more that he teased, drawing all those nerve endings into a state of excitement.

"Ed...feels so good..."

Ed preened at the praise and the way Oswald pushed back for more. He used his thumbs to stretch open the twitching little hole and shove his tongue inside. Oswald bucked and gasped, swearing when Ed pulled away just as abruptly and shoved two fingers through the tight ring of muscle instead, now slick with saliva. He worked his fingers in and out, sliding easily, twisting a little, just enough to tease, to wet his man's appetite. Every few seconds he would brush down across the slick little gland that was just within reach, earning a fresh wave of nonsense from his husband's mouth.

Ed knew that Oswald loved the feel of Ed's mouth, his fingers, but most of all his cock - and Ed was struggling to not simply give it to him, fast and hard. Oswald would be content with that, but fast was hardly what Ed had in mind tonight.

He stretched the greedy hole with another finger, listening to the hitch in Oswald's breathing as he worked, teased him further and further open.

"Ed..._please_..."

Ed leaned down to lick at the skin stretched taut around his knuckles. "Please what, baby?"

"You know what!" Oswald snapped impatiently, but he sounded more desperate than threatening.

Ed ground his fingers roughly into the tender little hole, earning a ragged grunt. He reached into the open bedside drawer with his free hand. "I know I must not be doing my job right if you can still talk."

The sleek, violet vibrator that Ed wanted was at the front of the drawer, easy to reach, familiar to the touch and well-used. He smiled wickedly and spread his fingers wide inside of Oswald's ass, wide enough to slide the firm rubber cock into that quivering little entrance too, red and sensitive now, alongside his fingers, earning an expectant whimper at the fuller feeling. Ed slid the dildo in and out slowly, watching the muscles in Oswald's thick ass contract and shudder as Ed found just the right spot again and thumbed on the vibration. Oswald buried his face into the pillow and moaned, guttural and deep. Ed pulled out his fingers and instead worked in earnest with the powerful vibrator.

It was slender and easy for Oswald to take, and he was pushing back against those delicious vibrations in earnest, ass in the air and completely shameless. He keened into the pillow like a bitch in heat, hands white around the top of the bed frame, hips pushing back for more. Ed worked the dildo aggressively down against the man's prostate, grinning at the ragged gasping sob he tore from Oswald's throat.

"Eddie -- honey -- fuck, Eddie fuck--"

The endearments and profanity were a double-tap to Ed's self-control, and he eyed the open bedside drawer again wildly. His own cock was leaking profusely, engorged by arousal, fogging his mind with the insatiable greed that consumed him for this man.

A thick, emerald-colored silicone sleeve was there at the back of the drawer. An anniversary gift last year from Oswald, they had only used it once before, on Ed himself. Ed pulled the vibrator out of Oswald and tossed the thing on top of the bedside table, where it landed with a wet thump, reaching instead for the daunting green sleeve. The thing was heavy in Ed's hand, felt girthy and tight as he stretched it wider and worked it down the length of his penis, hooked the loop around his testicles to hold it in place. As he reached for the lube again, he glanced up to see Oswald gazing back at him over one shoulder, wide-eyed and wild, pupils blown, hair slicked with sweat to his forehead, face flushed. His attention flicked to the fat sleeve on Ed's cock and then back up, and Ed ran a hand over the curve of Oswald's rear to reassure him, maintain their connection, as his other hand slicked up the big sleeve with a generous amount of lube. Oswald's eyes followed every movement of Ed's hands, breathing ragged, tense and uncertain, but still so hungry at the sight of the thick emerald cock.

Ed lined up the tip of his penis, just visible at the open end of the heavy sleeve, against the swollen little hole of his husband's ass. He considered going slow, at least as much as he could manage in his half-crazed lust, but Oswald had asked for it rough and that was exactly what Ed intended to give him. He glanced up at Oswald one last time before shoving in one hard thrust all the way to the base of his cock. Oswald all but screamed, buried his face back into the pillow. His thighs were shaking, back muscles straining as he tried to settle into the intensely full feeling, almost unbearable, that Ed remembered so well. Just the sight of Oswald stretched around the fat emerald sleeve was intoxicating, lewd and carnal, and Ed struggled to keep his hips still, bit down on his lower lip to regain a bit of focus. He ran his hands over Oswald's trembling flanks until he felt the man's body begin to relax.

"Ok?" he choked out.

Oswald nodded into the pillow. Ed nudged him with his hips, earning a cry. 

"Say it, Oswald."

Oswald groaned.

"Eddie, d-don't tease me," he whimpered, voice broken, hands gripping the bed so hard that his knuckles were white.

Ed leaned forward, resting a palm against the sturdy headboard to brace himself as he eased halfway out slowly, then back in, sliding with surprisingly little resistance. Oswald whimpered again, and Ed felt the sweat just starting to bead on his forehead as he pushed in, slid out, pushed back in, one hand on the wall, the other at Oswald's hip. His eyes locked on the visual of Oswald's asshole tight and greedy and vulnerable as he thrust in and out, stretched him, filled him, fucked the King of Gotham face-down into the expensive king-sized mattress.

Oswald was gasping, almost soundless, and Ed slid his hand from Oswald's hip to his belly, and then further down, seeking out proof that this was good, that this was what Oswald wanted. His fingers found Oswald's cock tightly bobbing between those thick thighs, hard as diamond, the tip of it smearing pre-cum all over Ed's fingertips, twitching eagerly at the touch of skin.

"E-ed!" whimpered Oswald as Ed removed his touch just as quickly as he'd granted it. Satisfied, Ed picked up the pace, both hands digging into the flesh of Oswald's rear, spreading his ass cheeks open and pounding in _hard_. Oswald screamed. Over and over. The bed was rocking with every snap of Ed's hips, skin slapping skin, carnal and raw. God, how Ed loved this man, imperfect and vulnerable and all _his_ to wreck and rebuild.

Fucking like animals, instinctive and primal, Ed was utterly lost in it, watching as Oswald's dark hair tossed side to side, as he squirmed for some kind of release. He was beautiful and shameless, flushed from head to toe and utterly wanton, a beast in heat.

Ed thrust into him as hard as he could but his own thighs were burning. He leaned down, his sweat dripping onto the crease between Oswald's shoulder blades. He needed to come, his cock and his balls were painful and heavy from delaying his orgasm, the excess blood -- he couldn't last any longer.

"Ozzie, are you close?" His voice was strangled in his own ears. Oswald could barely reply, voice choking with every slam of Ed's hips.

"Ed-- please-- I c-can't take anymore--"

"I'm waiting for _you_, old man," growled Ed. He tangled a hand in Oswald's damp hair, yanking back the man's head. "You delicious fucking slut."

Oswald choked out a violent sob before his whole body convulsed, seizing rapidly over and over around the big silicone cock in his ass, clamping down tight around Ed inside. Ed groaned, loud and long, grabbing onto the headboard with both hands as his own orgasm ripped through him in response, unbearably, deliciously, crippling in intensity. He shuddered all over, hips bucking through the high of their shared release. Endorphins exploded, pleasure saturating him to the bone like no drug ever could. Seconds passed, maybe another minute, he couldn't think enough to count the time, but he felt Oswald collapsing onto the bed, whimpering as the big sleeve around Ed's penis slipped out of the little man's body. Ed flopped over onto the mattress as well, rolling onto his back and staring up at the ceiling. 

His legs felt like gelatin, his brain was so high on endorphins - from just being _with_ Oswald, with feeding their connection - that even after several minutes passed it was difficult to concentrate. He felt a bone deep contentment, a growing pull towards sleep. They needed to clean up, Oswald was laying in a mix of his own come and Ed's and sticky spilled bourbon. The idea of moving was unpleasant, but they could hardly sleep this way. Ed peeled the wet sleeve from his softening cock and tossed the sleeve next to the vibrator on the bedside dresser.

He was gathering the motivation to sit up when he noticed Oswald's still-labored breathing beside him, prickling at his brain. He rolled towards Oswald and frowned.

"Ozzie?" He touched the man's shoulder. "Baby, did I hurt you?"

Oswald shook his head. Ed sat up, concerned, trailed a hand down to Oswald's rear, over the wrecked little hole there, wet with lube and leaking with semen, earning a hiss and a jerk of hips. He couldn't see any blood, but...

"Oswald, talk to me."

Oswald was quiet for another long moment before wiping at his face with one hand and finally turning away from the pillow enough to speak.

"I'm ok, Ed."

Ed scowled at the answer. Something was clearly not ok. "Oswald..."

Oswald shifted over onto his side, properly meeting Ed's concerned gaze. His eyes were red and he'd been crying a little, but he didn't look distressed, just...relieved.

"I promise," assured Oswald. "It was just...the release of it all. The letting go, I guess."

He smiled a little, sincerely, and Ed sighed in relief and met those pretty pink lips with a kiss. Ed was tired now, completely fucked out, but more than that he felt valued and needed, and he worked their lips together gently, gratefully for a few moments, until he sensed Oswald was falling asleep in his arms.

Ed brushed back the damp hair from Oswald's forehead. "Did you want to shower before bed?"

One blue eye barely opened.

"Eddie. I'm wrecked."

Ed laughed. He rolled out of bed and dragged himself to the closest bathroom, returned with a small basin of warm water and a rag to clean themselves up enough to sleep. Oswald hummed as Ed wiped gently at his rear, taking care around the tender area.

"Here, we'll change the sheets properly tomorrow," Ed urged. Oswald dragged himself far enough up the bed for Ed to spread a quilt over the soiled sheets for them to lay on. He got a second blanket from the closet and climbed into bed for the final time that night, spreading the blanket out across them. Oswald sighed and settled into the pillows, already falling asleep by the time Ed had settled next to him. He wrapped an arm around Oswald's waist and snugged up comfortably against his back.

"Sleep tight, baby," he whispered, sinking deeply into the bosom of sleep a few moments later.

*

Oswald Cobblepot was a not a man who simply _got ready_ in the morning.

He was a vain man, not unlike Ed, but even Ed had to chuckle at Oswald's lengthy morning routine. At the moment, the King of Gotham was seated on his travertine shower bench, face tilted up into the soothing spray of the raindrop shower head, salt-and-pepper hair trailing down the back of his neck. Ed watched him from the door of the bathroom for a few moments, noting how peaceful he appeared, before crossing to the big glass doors of the walk-in shower.

He shrugged off his gold and green robe and stepped into the shower, latching the door closed behind him. Oswald acknowledged his entrance with half a nod, not bothering to open his eyes. Ed considered sitting next to his husband on the bench, but instead settled down on his shins on the tiled shower floor, slotting his slender body comfortably between Oswald's parted knees. Oswald did look at him then, affection in his eyes as Ed rested his hands on Oswald's thighs.

"I expected you to sleep in until at least noon this morning," Ed commented, and if a touch of hubris seeped into his tone, well, Ed figured he'd earned the right to boast a bit after last night. His implication did not go unnoticed by Oswald.

"I slept very well, thank you. Don't let it go to your already insufferable head."

Ed smirked and rested his head on Oswald's good knee, trailing his fingers gently up and down Oswald's other shapely calf. The shower felt soothing, reassuring, and alongside the comfort of Oswald's presence Ed thought he might drift back to sleep, but then he felt fingers sliding under his jaw and he smiled. The fingertips drew him up until he met Oswald in a soft, chaste kiss. Soon, Oswald would need to leave for the Lounge, meet with his lawyers and his son, set the stage for a new ringmaster to crack the whip across the back of Gotham City. Before Ed could think about his own plans for the rest of the day, Oswald surprised him once again.

"I want to take a vacation."

Ed pulled back in surprise. Oswald _never_ spoke of leaving Gotham, not even for business, much less for pleasure. "Oh?"

Oswald nodded. His fingertips drifted up and down Ed's long neck in time with his thoughts. 

"After the surgery," he continued, "I want a proper vacation. Somewhere grand. Make a thing of it," he said, a mischievous glint in his eyes now. "Steal something exotic and wonderful."

Ed laughed, delighted, because of course no vacation for them could be truly enjoyed without the thrill of a high stakes reward. He couldn't tell if this urge to get out of Gotham was a decision Oswald had conceived that morning in the shower, or if it was one he had been considering for awhile. Either way, he had that determined set to his face that meant it was a thing he genuinely wanted, and Ed was two-hundred percent on board. He had never fallen prey to the obsessive love for this city that so consumed men like Oswald and Gordon. Although sometimes Ed appreciated Gotham's ubiquitous vice and sin, and how he could terrorize and murder and still never be the worst of the worst, he also hated this city and its unending gray void of more more _more_.

"I'll see what I can find that might interest us," he agreed.

He forcibly pushed aside the exciting whirl of potential places and bounty in favor of just enjoying their current communal time together. He smiled up at Oswald. 

"I love you," he added, words he somehow still found difficult to simply _say_ without the trappings of coitus or imminent harm. Silly, really, that even now he struggled with the words, but Oswald understood. Ed had always been a man who spoke through touches and gestures. Even still, the confession sparked the same lovely softness across Oswald's face as they always did.

"I love you too." Oswald's thick fingers stroked back Ed's long bangs from his forehead. A sober expression crossed his face and his hand slid down to caress Ed's cheek. "Eddie, I'm sorry if you felt shut out recently. I never meant to make you feel insecure or unwanted." He leaned down and brushed a kiss across Ed's lips. "As ever, I am incomplete without you."

The words hit Ed hard with emotion, and he pulled Oswald's face to his, smothering the burn of tears with a rough kiss. The water cascading down on them was warm between their lips, tasted fresh in Ed's mouth as they parted and came back together.

He smiled, a warmth swelling up and driving out the cold that had settled through his guts and his bones all those weeks ago.

He smiled, hummed in contentment as he ducked his head further between Oswald's open thighs, a grateful need pushing for expression, Oswald's heavy breath hitching in surprise and then pleasure.

He smiled, fingers tightened in his hair, urging him down to the precipice of breathless, too much and not enough. Gasps of encouragement reached his ears, mingled with lusty praises, how he was such a good boy, how delightful and good, and his world dissolved into the feel of marble and steam and skin.

And always Oswald.


End file.
